It's not a weakness, is it? Is it?
The words crept through his semi-conscious mind as he closed his eyes and reluctantly allowed the darkness to take over. He knew what they meant. He knew what would come. You'd think he'd gotten used to it by now, dreaming the same dream over and over again, night after night. The truth was that it became harder and harder to remember which was the dream, and which was reality.
He spent his every waking moment trying to remember what exactly had happened, and what had led him to that point of no return. He tried to remember what he'd been thinking, feeling… but everything was a blur.
He doesn't care about us. About anything.
It wasn't that he wasn't aware of what he'd done. He knew he had, and he knew it had been his choice – in the end. Sometimes he wished he could claim that he'd been brainwashed, actually brainwashed, as so many of Hydra's "followers" had been. But he was done lying – well, to her at least. He couldn't pretend that it wasn't really him that had made the choice to… well, to what? To kill them? To save them? He wasn't sure anymore.
We're friends, aren't we? We've been friends.
And now he was drifting off, hearing their voices in his mind again, in his dreams. Telling him he was good, that he had a choice. Those were lies, he knew. He was not good. He wasn't really a bad person, either, though. He was a soldier. He followed orders.
He wasn't supposed to get attached. He wasn't supposed to get weak.
A bullet to the brain. Easy, clean. Permanent.
It wasn't easy at all.
I know that you care about us, Ward!
He looked at them again, in his dream. At Fitz, stubbornly holding on to the hope that he was good. That he was weak, in a way. That he cared. And at Simmons, who had always been the more sober of the two. Who had clearly given up that hope a long time ago. Who didn't believe there was anything good left in him. If there ever was any at all.
I do.
The truth was that he did care. It's virtually impossible to spent so much time with such a tight knit group and not care. A part of him had always held back, was always telling himself that attachement was weakness. Was screaming heil Hydra as loud as it could. Was telling him that Gareth was his savior, his protector, his father-figure if you will. That they could not uphold his standards. That loyalty was crucial.
He supposed that she was the breaking point. The moment where his loyalty was truly at risk of shifting. The moment he realized he was incapable of not getting attached. The moment he realized he was attached. To her. To them. To a life outside Hydra.
The dream is always the same.
He turns away from Fitz and Simmons. He doubts, for a moment, when he does. Attachment. But in the end, he presses the button. Not because he wants them dead, but because he needs to obey the orders he received. And because it eases his conscience. Because it gives them a chance. Because it gives them hope. At least, that's what he tells himself. In the end, he always presses the button.
And when he turns around, it's not Fitz or Simmons he catches a glimpse of.
It's Skye.
It's a weakness.
As always, he wakes up, covered in sweat – her name burning on his lips.
